The Spamtom Of The Opera
by silveryswirls
Summary: A spoof of Phantom with way too many Monty Python ideas completely stolen. I'm thinking I should lock my dorm door to keep people from hurting me. Rated T to be on the safe side.
1. Music History Gets Less Boring

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the fingers typing this up. I accidentally bet those to my dad's step-grandfather in a pool game in Oregon last September. _

_This is supposed to be in script form, but that's apparently not allowed on so just imagine it's being acted out rather than told in a story._

_And one last thing: I don't expect to update this often, so if you, for some ridiculous reason, want to keep reading it, check back once a month at the most._

**Prologue**

Karina, the author of this, sat in her music history class, a pencil at the ready in each hand. (She was ambidextrous and enjoyed showing it off whenever possible.) The professor cleared his throat, unfortunately not much silencing the room. That didn't stop him from beginning the lecture.

"Beethoven. Mozart. Chopin. Liszt, Brahms, Panties--" He coughed and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Schumann, Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Bach. Names that will live forever. But there is one composer whose name is never included with the greats."

He raised an eyebrow. The class finally stopped talking, realizing that he was going to say something that would most likely be on a test.

"Why is it the world never remembered the name of Erik Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitter-crasscrenbonfried-digger-dingle-dangle-dongle-dungle--"

He took a deep breath before attempting to continue.

"--Burstein-von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spellunkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelterwasser-kurtslich-himbleeisen-bahnwagen-gutenabend--"

By this point, he had to stop and get a drink of water before continuing. Karina had by this point completely tired out her left hand, and she began scribbling furiously with her right.

"--Bitte-ein-nurnburger-bratwustle-genspurten-mitz-weimache-luber-hundsfut-gumberaber-shonendanker-kalbsfleisch-mittler-aucher von Hautkopft of Ulm?"

A lasso suddenly wrapped around his neck, effectively garrotting him and cutting off any possibility of taking further notes. Karina massaged her exhausted hands and, completely nonplussed, stared at the tall man with the mask.

The stranger looked disgustedly at her professor and then announced to the class, "Je déteste ce nom. Je le change en le fantôme de l'opéra!"

The rest of the class figured that the teacher's demise warranted a shortened class, and they began packing up their books. Karina, however, was curious and didn't speak French well. "Er...what did you say?"

The man looked confused. "You do not speak French?"

"No, we all speak English here."

"Er...where's here?"

"The music history class at UC Davis. In America."

The guy sounded astonished. "What the heck kind of wormhole did I drop through?" The remainder of her words suddenly took effect, brightening his tone. "Music history class? And you were learning about me?"

"Well, if you're..." Karina checked her notes. "Erik Gambolputty de von Ausfern--"

Erik cut her off. "Well, who better to tell you the story than the composer himself? Now take notes, everybody."

One girl who had been close to getting out the door turned, groaning. "Will this be on the test?"

Erik's eyes, underneath the mask, narrowed. "Would you like me to test out my Punjab lasso?"

That answered her question quite thoroughly.

_I am not taking a music history class. But I may in the future, so imagine me when I'm twenty or twenty-one doing this._

_I took four years of Spanish and only one year of French. I had to use a translator. Lo siento/je regrette/je suis desolee._


	2. A Harmless Little Opera Singer

_Disclaimer: I own almost nothing. I do own the lyrics to "Brats of the Ensemble", but if you tell anyone, I'll deny it. _

_I updated rather sooner than I said I would mainly because I already had this part written; I just needed to convert them to story form so they'd be allowed on this site. I've actually got a little more written too._

**If Carlotta Accidentally Chops Herself Up In The Middle Of A Forest With A Chainsaw And There's No One There To Hear It (Since She's Already Obviously Deaf Anyway), Does She Make A Sound?**

**(Answer: most likely, since they'd hear her from Indonesia, and we assume this is a French forest.)**

That accursed soprano was screeching again, but for once without calling it singing. Erik wasn't even sure to whom Carlotta was speaking, if you could call that. Madame Giry? Reyer? Piangi? Buquet? Yes, probably Buquet. Either way, she was yelling, "Look at-a ME, NOT at-a the stupid dancing girls! LOOK AT-A ME!"

Erik rolled his eyes and muttered. "No, thanks, I value my eyes. I'd rather spy on the ballet rats..."

For once, however, Madame Giry didn't care that her girls were getting distracted. They were doing some sort of weird tap dance along with a ridiculous song. Erik perked up his ears to listen to it.

"We're brats of the ensemble!  
We'll show you a good tumble!  
We've got big hearts and tiny parts  
But you never hear us grumble!"

Erik frowned. "On second thought, I don't think I should. They are silly things."

He quickly forgot about the ballerinas upon the arrival of three people. One he recognized; it was Lefevre, the manager. The other two he did not know. But of course, he was to find out. After all, like in any good story, characters only notice plot points.

Whoever they were, they were completely messing up rehearsal, although the ballerinas' song had probably done that pretty well. Reyer cut everyone off with a wave of his baton and turned to Lefevre. "M. Lefevre," he began heatedly, "we are trying to rehearse! And while this may not seem important to you, it will be important when no one ever attends the opera again because this whole show goes up in flames! Er, metaphorically speaking, of course."

Erik grinned from his hiding place in box five. "Thanks for the idea, M. Reyer!" he thought to himself, chuckling.

"Well, you see, M. Reyer--he's our conductor, by the way," he shot out of the corner of his mouth to the two strangers, "the success of this opera no longer matters to me in the slightest, as I have sold it to these two men, M. Richard Firmin, and M. Gilles Andre."

Carlotta stepped forward to greet the men. With a syrupy tone masking underlying danger, she introduced herself. "I am ze prima donna of zees show, Carlotta Giudicelli. Have you heard of-a me?"

Firmin bent to kiss her hand. "Why, of course, mademoiselle. We have seen you triumph in many a show."

Carlotta drew her hand back, shrieking once more. "Then you should know to look at-a ME, NOT AT THE LEETLE BALLERINAS!"

Andre apparently immediately recognized the need of a highly important survival tactic: kissing ass. "Signora, we merely needed to get acquainted with the whole of the opera house! Now that we've completed our tour, nothing would please us more than to watch you perform!"

"Lefevre...just WHY are you retiring?" Firmin asked, staring in horrified wonder at the now appeased diva. Lefevre mumbled some excuse about his health. "Really?" Firmin pressed.

Lefevre appeared to give up. "Oh, confound it. I never wanted to own an opera...I wanted to be...A LUMBERJACK!" His eyes grew misty as he gestured madly with his arms. "Leaping from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of British Columbia! The Fir! The Larch! The Redwood! The mighty Scots Pine! The plucky little Aspen! The great limping rude tree of Nigeria! The smell of fresh-cut timber! The crash of mighty trees!"

He grabbed the arm of an unsuspecting Meg, who was too shocked to push him away. "With my best gal by my side, we'd sing, SING..." He burst into song.

"I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay, I sleep all night and I work all day!"

Everyone joined in except Meg (who was still too shocked), Madame Giry (who was glowering at Lefevre for grabbing her daughter), and Erik, who was merely observing, amused. "He's a lumberjack and he's okay! He sleeps all night and he works all day!"

Lefevre continued solo. "I cut down trees, I eat my lunch, I go to the lavatory! On Wednesdays, I go shopping and have buttered scones for tea!"

This time, everyone was caught up in the music. Even Meg, who decided Lefevre wasn't quite so bad even if he was old. Even Mme Giry, who figured that at least he was rich, so it wasn't bad that Meg was in his favor. Even Erik, who thought it was a catchy tune, though it had nothing on Music of the Night. But you'll have to wait for a later scene for that.

"He cuts down trees, he eats his lunch, he goes to the lavatory! On Wednesdays, he goes shopping and has buttered scones for tea!"

Carlotta was the first to snap out of the spell this song had cast over them. "'Ey, wait a meenute! 'Ow come 'e get a song when 'e only OWNED the opera? I'MA THE STAR! I GET THE NEXT SONG!"

Andre again showed his immense aptitude at averting disaster by sucking up. "Why, of course, mademoiselle! I know just the one! Isn't there a rather marvelous aria for Elissa in Act Five?"

"Three, sir!" some fat guy corrected. Everyone looked at him, wondering who the heck he was and where he'd come from, and then realized in embarrassment that he was Piangi, the lead role. Oops.

"Three," Andre amended.

Carlotta assented readily, always willing to show off her extremely...unique...vocal cords. "Sure, why-a not-a?"

Lefevre smacked his forehead. "Oh, beware, you fools!" he warned. "There is a beast so frightening, it will rip your eardrums to shreds!" Carlotta stepped forward on the stage as Reyer lifted his baton a bit hesitantly. Lefevre shrieked and pointed. "THERE IT IS!"

Firmin looked, wondering to what he was referring. "What, behind Carlotta?"

"It IS Carlotta!" Lefevre hissed. Firmin looked skeptic.

Carlotta began. "Think of meeeeeeeeee, think of me foooooooooooondly wheeeeeeeeeen we've said GOOOOOOOOOOOOODbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyye, remember meeeeeeeeee, once in a whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile, please prooooooooooooomise me yo-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUU'LL t-rrr-yyyyyyyyyyy..."

Lefevre grimaced, covering his ears. "Oh, you see? I tried to warn you! But nooooo, it's just a harmless little OPERA SINGER, isn't it?"

Erik should have been used to it by that point, but there are just some forms of torture to which one is never fully numbed. He saved everyone's ears by moving a few well-chosen ropes that dropped a well-chosen backdrop onto a soprano that had not been so well-chosen for a star but was quite well-chosen for getting a backdrop on her butt.

It was quite obvious at this point that Carlotta was ticked. And while everyone in the room was happy at that moment due to the fact that the prima donna had stopped singing...it was a general rule that when Carlotta was unhappy, everyone else would soon be unhappy too.

Then Firmin got an idea! An awful idea! Firmin got a wonderful, awful idea! "Hey, let's say something that sounds like we're trying to help but is actually really stupid so she'll leave!" he whispered to his partner.

Andre obliged. " Signora...uh...these things do happen!"

Carlotta was, quite obviously, not appeased. "Si, si, I kind of NOTICED-A, since it appears to have-a happened ON TOP OF MY REAR END-A! So long-a, suckers!" She stormed out, to everyone's relief.

"Wow, you guys lucked out. See ya never!" Lefevre exited also, taking care to keep safe distance between him and Carlotta.

_To my lovely reviewers: thanks! To my not so lovely reviewers...no, I'm kidding. You're all lovely._

_(No, I didn't forget those on my list of great composers, though...I just directly stole the exact lines they use. Wagner's my favorite :-D) _


	3. The Phantom Flies?

_Disclaimer: I own a larynx that makes a better evil laugh than Madame Giry's. Other than that, I own nothing._

_I'm mad, because I actually procrastinated on my bioethics homework to finish a chapter yesterday, and the stupid thing wouldn't upload. It made me sad. Kept having problems._  
_  
Notes to reviewers:_

_free2befroody: I almost forgot about the French taunter! Blasphemy on my part, methinks. I'll put it into a scene, most likely when Erik's Punjabbing Raoul._

_Robika: I have the Monty Python episode with Arthur "Two-Sheds" Jackson...I'll have to watch it again to see if I can fit it into somewhere, but I can't think of any way yet. Maybe I'll have a brief interlude from the plot to go back to my music history class and talk about Erik "OG" Gambolputty de von etc._

_I'd love to hear ideas from people from what I should include...I'll see if I can fit it in._

_And now..._

**ON WITH THE SHOW!**

Meanwhile, Andre shuffled some papers with a worried look on his face. "Um...Firmin? Have you seen these numbers?"

"What numbers?"

"We sold out for tonight. Apparently, there's a lot of masochistic people who'd pay a lot to see this."

Firmin, always the greedy penny-pincher, screamed. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Mme Giry intervened before Firmin threw a temper tantrum. "By the way, gentlemen, I shall choose this inopportune time to tell you that I have a letter from the Opera Ghost--"

Firmin was sufficiently distracted. "Where'd you get the letter?"

"...What?"

"Well," Firmin reasoned, "he couldn't have handed it to you, since that would destroy the whole ghost effect. So how did you get it?"

"It fell to me from up there!" Mme Giry explained, pointing towards the ceiling.

"Are you saying that the Phantom flies?" Firmin scoffed.

Mme Giry spoke patiently as though talking to a young child. (It was very clear that she was a mother.) "The letter could have been carried by something that flies."

"What, a swallow or something?" Firmin asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Mme Giry considered this for a moment. "I think we'd notice a swallow in here, so I think more along the lines of...a mosquito!"

"What, a mosquito carrying a letter?"

"It could grip it by the wax seal!"

"It's not a question of where it grips it! It's a simple question of weight ratios! A tiny little mosquito could not carry a letter with that much wax on it!"

Mme Giry started to get fed up with this conversation. "Well, it doesn't matter. Will you please just read the letter?"

Apparently, he wouldn't. "Listen, in order to maintain air-speed velocity, a mosquito has to beat its wings--"

So much for the motherly patience. "Please! I am not interested! Will you just read the--"

Andre butted in at this moment with his own helpful contribution. "Wait, supposing two mosquitoes carried it together? They could put their proboscides in the seal!"

"What, into the eyes?" Firmin asked, frowning as he considered this theory.

"Well, why not?"

"AUUUUUUUUUUGH!" Mme Giry screamed and tore at her hair. "Look, I'll freaking read it to you! 'Greetings, and welcome to my opera house. Yeah, that's right, MINE. You think you bought it? HOW WRONG YOU ARE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!'"

"That's a great evil laugh, Mom," Meg told her.

Mme Giry smiled proudly, cleared her throat, and continued. "'So anyway, just remember to chuck me the cash--'"

"What cash?" Andre interrupted.

Mme Giry gestured impatiently. "That's what I've been trying to tell you for freaking ages. You owe the Phantom twenty thousand francs a month--"

"TWENTY THOUSAND FRANCS?" Firmin screeched.

"Yup, and an opera box, too. Box five."

Firmin fumed and, like a mathematician _(A/N: I can say this because my other major, besides music, is math)_, reduced it to a previous problem. (Which unfortunately hadn't been solved yet, so it was like a really sucky mathematician.) "Well, I don't see why the hell he'd want to watch it tonight, since we obviously can't have the show without someone singing the lead!"

Mme Giry, ever the problem-solver, pulled out a girl from the chorus. "Christine Daae's been taking lessons from a great teacher."

"Who?" Andre asked skeptically.

"Christine Daae."

"No, no, who's the teacher?" He this time addressed the shy blonde (read the book, darn it) who was trying to avoid attention by shrinking back into the group.

"I...don't know, sir," she said, glaring at Mme Giry for making her appear stupid.

"Then how have you been making out the checks?" Firmin asked, his one-track mind proving that it was stuck on money.

"I don't pay for lessons, either," Christine said. Great, now she appeared stupid AND poor.

Mme Giry smirked. "Nope, that's your job, Messieurs."

"WHAT?" Firmin exploded, seeing yet another expense.

"I repeat, twenty thousand francs a month." Gee, I wonder who the teacher could be, then?

Andre chose to ignore that comment. "Free singing lessons? What good are those?"

"Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught." Mme Giry motioned for Christine to audition.

Christine stepped nervously to the front of the stage. Reyer began conducting with mixed emotions. After all, she couldn't be worse than Carlotta...but then again...what if she WAS?

His fears were unfounded. From the moment Christine's mouth opened, it was clear that she surpassed any singer anyone in that room had ever heard. "Think of me...think of me fondly when we've said goodbye...remember me once in a while, please promise me you'll try..."

Everyone stared, entranced and shocked, at the chorus girl. Everyone except Erik, whose stare was drooling and lovesick instead.

"When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!"

And then, quite suddenly, everyone in the room fell through a wormhole and landed in the future, where they realized that it was Act Three of the opera's performance and their clothes had changed. Christine was the most shocked of all, noticing that the audience's eyes were fixed on her. She recovered rather quickly, thinking to herself, "Well, at least I was already singing the song. I could have been in the bathroom or something embarrassing like that."

She sang the rest of the song beautifully. All that remains to be mentioned is that some stupid rich childhood boyfriend of hers suddenly noticed that she was female and gorgeous, and he made the mistake of cheering for her a bit too enthusiastically during an orchestral interlude. And this did not go unnoticed by a certain person with the initials E. G. d. v. A. s. s. c. d. d. d. d. d. B. v. k. t. a. b. h. t. g. k. s. g. g. s. k. h. b. g. B. e. n. b. g. m. w. l. h. g. s. k. m. a. v. H... o. U., who was very annoyed. Mainly because that stupid moron Raoul was sitting in his box, and even ghosts find that a bit cramped.


	4. The Angel of Music doesn't just sing

_Disclaimer: No, stop it, stop it! No more bloody accusing me of plagiarizing! I fully admit that I don't own them._

_By the way, I have no idea what I'm going to do for the underground lair scene with Phantom of the Opera and Music of the Night. Any suggestions?_

**Just let the poor soprano change!**

A ballet dancer slipped away from the rehearsing group. It was, in fact, Meg. What the heck she was thinking, what with her mother being the ballet instructor and extremely strict, we will never know. She located Christine in her dressing room.

A beautiful baritone voice spoke. "And now for something completely different..." Christine looked up, startled, but Meg didn't hear it.

"Hey, Christine, you were amazing! So tell me, who's this 'great teacher' my mom referred to?"

Christine took a deep breath and started singing. "Father once spoke of an angel...I used to--"

Meg interrupted, annoyed. "No, no, stop it! No singing! Now tell me, who is he?"

"Okay, fine. He's a guy who hides somewhere in my room singing to me. Are you happy?"

Meg raised an eyebrow. "Christine, that's not a teacher. That's a stalker."

Christine shook her head fervently. "Meg, you don't understand. He's my angel!" With misty eyes, she sang again. "Angel of music, guide and guardian! Grant to me--"

"NO! STOP IT! STOP IT! NO MORE BLOODY SINGING!"

Christine whimpered.

Mme Giry stepped into the room at this point. "Meg Giry, _get your rear end out here and dance with everyone else!_"

"Okay, okay, sheesh," Meg muttered, shooting a glance at her friend. She searched for backup and found it in a certain pretty boy Vicomte who was searching for Christine. "Raoul! Will you do me a favor? Keep Christine company, make sure she doesn't get carried off by any musically talented stalkers, and don't let her sing!"

Raoul beamed, ready to take on such a responsible task. "Keep her company and let her sing while she's carried off by musically talented stalkers."

Meg stopped, wondering if it was safe to leave Christine in such blatantly stupid and entirely unsafe arms. "No, no. She's not to sing or leave the room with any musically talented stalkers."

"She has to sing solo and leave the room alone, not with stalkers."

"No, no, she can't sing OR leave the room, unless you're with her."

Raoul digested this. "Oh, if if if, uh, if I, uh, if if...uh..."

Meg shot an exasperated look at her mother. "Look, it's quite simple. You stay in the room with her, make sure she doesn't sing, and avoid any random disembodied voices of musically talented stalkers! All right?"

Raoul's eyes lit up. "Oh, I remember! Can she sing as long as I'm singing with her?"

Meg worked hard to keep from smacking her forehead. The boy was so dense. "No, no, no, no, you just keep her company and--"

"Oh, yeah, I'll keep her company, obviously, but if she had to sing, and I was with her--"

"No, just make sure she doesn't sing."

"And keep her company until any musically talented stalkers come--"

"No, no musical stalkers. Just wait for me."

"Keep her company until just you..."

"Come back."

"Come back." Raoul nodded as though he understood.

"All right?" Meg smiled at him as patiently as she possibly could.

Raoul nodded. "I'm to keep her company until you come back."

Meg had been about to turn away, but stopped at this. "And, uh...make sure she doesn't sing."

"Christine?"

"Yes, make sure she doesn't sing."

Raoul smiled cheerfully. "Oh, yes, of course. I thought you meant Mme Giry! You know, it seemed a bit daft to me if I were to keep her from singing when she's a dancing teacher anyway."

Meg gritted her teeth and stopped the comment of "You seem more than a bit daft to me!" from coming out of her mouth. "Is that clear?"

"Oh, yes, quite clear." Raoul entered Christine's dressing room while Meg rolled her eyes and hoped he didn't screw things up too badly. Mme Giry tugged her away to the rehearsal.

Raoul racked his brain for anything the two might have in common, but when he remembered that Christine was an opera singer and he was...not...he searched for memories of the past instead. "Christine Daae, where is your scarf?"

"Er...right here?" she said, pointing to a green scarf.

"No, no, the red one! You know, the one that I rescued from the ocean...got soaked to the skin..."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I wish you'd stop harping on about that. One day, you let a boy go rescue your scarf from the ocean, and he never shuts up about it again!"

Obviously, wrong topic. Raoul searched for another. "Well...remember those stories your father used to tell us? Little Lotte let her mind wander...little Lotte thought of when the Angel of Music would sing songs in her head and visit her in her bedroom. She thought of the last time he had come, when he'd roughly grabbed her by the shoulders and ripped off her--" He suddenly blinked in confusion. "Er, well, how about the story about a king...he sat in a little boat on one of those deep, still lakes that open like a bright eye in the midst of the Norwegian mountains, by a pier where the men dressed as ladies--" No, there was something amiss with that story too. He searched his miniscule brain for all memories of stories Daddy Daae had told them. "Discipline?...Naked?" He shook his head incredulously and recalled yet another story. He yelped as his mouth dropped open. "With a _melon_?" He'd never realized just how...inappropriate for children...these children's stories were.

He suddenly remembered the girl beside him. With a glance at her, he forgot all about Meg's instructions and invited her to dinner to take her mind off any interesting stories he had just reminded her of.

"No, Raoul...you see..." Christine hesitated; after the Angel of Music story he had just talked about, she was unwilling to tell him that the Angel of Music was singing songs in _her _head...among the other things that he had mentioned, which were roughly accurate. "Well, you see, Raoul, I...uh...my tutor is very strict and doesn't want me to get distracted from my vocal studies.

"Aw, come on, Christine! I won't keep you up _too _late!"

Christine shuddered. "No, Raoul--"

He didn't take the hint. "I'll give you a few minutes to change, and then we can go." He left. Christine was almost relieved, except that she knew he'd be coming back.

Raoul returned in a few minutes to see Christine's dress flung over the door. "Christine?" he said through the door. He was about to come in when he heard the male voice.

"Er, look, would you mind running along for ten minutes?" the beautiful baritone voice asked. "Make it half an hour."

Raoul was flummoxed. "Uh...no, no, right-ho, fine. Yes, I'll wait outside, shall I?" He moved a bit away from the door when suddenly, Piangi came by in search of some kind of part in this fanfic.

"Now, hold it there, Raoul. A man can run and run for year after year until he realizes that what he's running from...is himself." Piangi, for once, sounded sage, even though we all know that he's in love with Carlotta.

"Gosh!" Raoul said, sounding surprised.

"A man's got to do what a man's got to do, and there's no sense in running. Now you gotta turn, and you gotta fight, and you gotta hold your head up high."

"Yes!"

A few last words of encouragement from Piangi. "Now you go back in there, my son, and be a man!"

"Yes, I will. I will!" Raoul stood taller. "I've been pushed around long enough. This is it. This is your moment, Raoul de Chagny--this is it, Raoul de Chagny. At last you're a man!" He burst into the room. "All right, Christine, come out of there!"

The baritone voice came out muffled from behind the mirror. "Go away."

"Er, right, right." Raoul ran out of the room and into a random extra wearing a suit of armor and wielding a rubber chicken. The last thing he remembered was the rubber chicken bearing down onto his head.


	5. A plea for help

**This is a very short filler chapter. Sorry. It has two purposes: 1) To let you know that I am, in fact, alive--I've been coughing up blood, and on Tuesday, I couldn't even sit up, but I'm ALIVE... and 2) so people will HELP ME!**

**I still have no idea what I'm going to do for the Phantom of the Opera scene! No idea at all! So please, someone, suggest something that might work! I'm reading all the scripts to every sketch Monty Python ever did and everything, but I haven't thought of anything yet. I beg of you...help!  
**

**And now, onto the filler chapter. Which, by the way, I don't own any of.  
**

_Scene: Right after Angel of Music and right before Little Lotte_

Andre: A tour de force! No other way to describe it!

Firmin: What a relief! Not a single refund!

Mme Firmin: Greedy.

Firmin: Hey, woman, keep your smart-ass comments to yourself!

Mme Firmin (crying): BUT IT'S MY ONLY LINE!


	6. Erotic song?

_The great but not very mighty Karina (last name taken out to make it difficult for rabid phangirls to torch her dorm for blasphemingly parodying the wonderful POTO) is back! Still sick, but the doctor assures her she'll be sick for quite a while. She--meh, darn third person. Back to first. Anyway, we were all afraid it was pneumonia (I had all the symptoms, including coughing up blood and skin turning blue), but I went to the doctor, and he cheered me up by telling me it's just viral bronchitis. Basically, the same symptoms except more coughing, different color of what I'm coughing up, and less dying. Oh, and it will last six weeks rather than dying after two._

_**BY THE WAY, I MUST MENTION THIS FOR THE REST OF THE STORY! **First of all, sometimes I base this on the movie, sometimes on the musical (ALW's, obviously, not Ken Hill's), and sometimes--very rarely--on the books. It's just whichever suits my needs at whatever time. Secondly, just so you're aware, even when I'm done going through the whole entire play (which is what the general story is based on, not the books, obviously), I plan to do extra random scenes that don't actually necessarily go with the plot so much. So even when it's complete...it won't be. Stay tuned :-D Oh, and I'll get to everyone's requests at some point, whether in the story or in the extra scenes, but I'll try within the story._

_And now a note to my favorite reviewer, Robika. It's not that I pick favorites or anything, but you're the one who's responded every chapter AND obeyed my request to help suggest ideas...so first of all, thanks for that. Is the pie thing a Monty Python thing? I don't remember that...hmm. If it's all you, yay for creative juices. I love the registrar sketch--it rules. Unfortunately, it doesn't fit in here (plotwise) very well--you should put it in something, and if you do, tell me so I can read the whole thing._

_Okay, just one more author's note (finally!). I own this about as much as Erik owns Cesar: I stole it for my own malevolent purposes from people who'd probably be ticked off if they knew exactly who had it, where the person is hiding it, and what they're doing with it._

**And now we go forth...deeper than the pit orchestra...**

Due to the author's lack of flowing creative juices (even the intense coughing couldn't stimulate the brain into thinking right), we will gloss over the journey to the Phantom's lair. Basically, if you're reading this, I'm sure you already know what happens, and if you don't, either watch the movie (or see the musical, but that tends to be more difficult) or read another parody. Ever read Cleolinda's "Phantom of the Opera in 15 Minutes"? I love that one. "Are we there yet?" "No." "Are we there yet?" "No." "Will we get there any faster if I flash all of my thigh and possibly more?" "...Yes."

Anyway, the two traveled to the lair--and when I say traveled, I mean _traveled_. Not just by foot. By horse, by boat...and before long, Christine even rode the Phant--wait, don't want to up the rating on this. During this time, Christine also conveniently found out that his name was Erik, just to make writing the rest of this story a bit easier.

The two embraced lovingly. Christine thought back to Raoul and, for a brief moment, hesitated. "Oh, oh, oh, Erik...should we?"

"Oh, Christine, why not?"

Christine put up no further resistance. "Be gentle with me..."

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,  
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination,  
Silently, the senses abandon their defenses..._

Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor,  
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender,  
Turn your face away from the garish light of day,  
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light...  
And listen to the music of the night...

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,  
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before...  
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!_

The real, present-day (having time-traveled?) Erik walked in front of the scene at this point, looking slightly embarrassed. "Ah, I, um...I'm terribly sorry. This is not actually the song I sang; what I sang was really in French. And when I sang it, I sang it infinitely better than Gerard Butler. Er, sorry." He walked out of the shot while the Erik behind him continued singing to Christine. Conveniently, quite a bit of the song had passed by.

_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication,  
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation,  
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in  
To the power of the music that I write...  
The power of the music of the night..._

Christine cut in at this moment. "Oh, Erik, are you going to do anything, or are you just going to sing me a bunch of metaphors all evening?"

Erik looked at her pleadingly. "Just a few more," he wheedled.

"Oh," Christine sighed, rolling her eyes. She promptly fell asleep from boredom.

"Damn," Erik muttered. "Oh, well, since she's already asleep, she won't care if I continue..."

_You alone can make my song take flight...  
Help me make the music of the night!_


	7. Who Needs A Mask When One Has A Bag?

_Oh noes! I'm behind my quota (quotum?) for an average of at least a thousand words per chapter! That may be because of the really short filler chapter, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to catch up. So here you go--several scenes, just to make this long. w00t._

_You know, despite my statement in the first chapter of "I don't expect to update often", I think I'm doing pretty well timewise. I'm so proud of myself...this one is posted just a day after the last one! (And was actually finished within an hour of posting the last one, but it was also four AM and I wanted to get to bed.)_

**Step away from the mask, and nobody gets forced to sing. Er, and other scenes.**

Christine woke up the next morning, unsure of what had happened. Then...she remembered! "Let's see...I remember...there was mist, swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake...there were candles all around--we'd better get the fire marshall in here soon. Um...I was in a boat...and on a horse...oh, yeah! And a dude who bored me into sleep."

Erik overheard and muttered, "I could bore you in other ways that would wake you up but wear you out, my dear." A voice from above said, "Erik, watch it. I don't want to up the rating to mature." Erik scowled and apologized.

Christine did not notice this author intrusion in the least. Her attention focused solely on Erik. He'd seemed so gorgeous last night when he was singing, but come to think of it, his hair was a bit gray. And his face? His face was--well, actually, she had no idea. It was covered by a mask. And not a half mask, either, because they only did that in the musical to make it easier for the actors to sing. The mask covered his whole face. She mused: "I wonder if he's secretly sexy underneath that mask, and he's just hiding his face to protect himself from women?" So, of course, being the smart soprano she is, she asked.

"Well, why don't you just find out for yourself?" was Erik's reply. Hesitantly, she slipped her fingers under the mask and pulled it off. Before she could catch a glimpse of his face, however, he stood up and put a conveniently located paper bag over his head.

A random Persian guy popped out from behind the organ. "Did you take off his mask?"

Christine, floored, responded, "Well, yes...er..."

Erik's beautiful baritone voice came out, muffled, from under the paper bag. "I'm not coming out!"

The Persian, henceforth known as Nadir (thank you, Susan Kay), sighed. "Look what you've done. Now I've got to get him to the fish tank and sing." From among the other ridiculously random things Erik owned, Nadir pulled out a fish tank and stepped in it. "Child of the wilderness," he warbled, "born into emptiness, learn to be lonely, learn to find your way in darkness..."

Erik turned away from Christine, took the bag off his head, and put his mask back on, Nadir sighed and, before walking away, warned her, "Now don't take off his mask again. Please."

Erik turned back to Christine and beamed, although it was hard to see the smile under the mask. "Now, what was it you wanted?"

Christine was taken aback once again. "Oh, well, uh..." She pointed to his face.

The masked man sighed. "Everyone wants to know what's under the mask, but no one ever has the guts to look. See, if you really want to know, why don't you just take off the mask and look?"

Christine hesitated. "Well, you put a bag over your head the last time I took off your mask--" She took it off again, and of course, over his head the bag went once more.

Nadir came back in, looking furious. "I did ask!"

Mme Giry came in at this point. "Did somebody take off the Phantom's mask?"

Nadir gestured to Christine. "Twice!" he responded unbelievingly. Mme Giry rolled her eyes and shouted up towards the "ceiling" of the lair. In other words, the floor of the opera house. "Hey, everyone! Someone took off Erik's mask--_twice_!" She joined the Persian in the fish tank and sang the same weird song as before. Christine registered at the back of her mind that it was _so_ not nineteenth century.

"Who will be there for you? Comfort and care for you? Learn to be lonely! Learn to be your one companion..."

"It's not working!" Nadir realized. "We need more!"

The entire opera chorus somehow managed to find its way into the lair, Carlotta (for some reason having prematurely returned) leading. Carlotta's voice stuck out as loudly as usual, but for once, it wasn't quite as horrid. Although that may be because she took her normal range down a few octaves and sang in some entirely different style. "Never dream out in the world there are arms to hold you...you've always known your heart was on its own..."

Fortunately, Erik took the bag off his head at this point as Nadir, Mme Giry, and the chorus exited, breathing sighs of relief and glaring at Christine. (_"Now don't do it again!"_ hissed Mme Giry to the poor girl.) He looked cheerfully at Christine. "Did that satisfy your curiosity?"

By this point, Christine was very confused. She'd been taken out from her dressing room through a mirror down to some very damp place with a lake, an organ, and a billion candles, not to mention that she'd passed some very creepy arms holding even more candles. She'd fallen asleep to the beautiful but boring voice of the masked man who currently stood in front of her with a paper bag in his hands. And now, as it turned out, this guy was completely crazy, and she never wanted to have anything to do with him again. And she still hadn't seen his face. What was worse, she realized, was that the aforementioned guy had been spying on her quite creepily through the aforementioned mirror.

So you must, of course, forgive Christine for breaking down at this point and sobbing, "SOMEONE GET ME AWAY FROM HIM! I WANT MY MOMMY!"

Erik sighed, rolling his eyes. "See? It's always like this. One look at my face, and everyone always goes nuts and hates me. It's not like I can help it! I was born like this..."

Christine looked at him incredulously. "Save your life story for later," she told him bitterly (a comment of which he took note: _"I'll wait until I've kidnapped her properly!"_). "Right now, I just want to be taken back to my mommy." She sniffled.

"Okay, okay," Erik muttered. "Although might I remind you, your mother died years ago." Christine sniffled even more loudly. "I'll just hand you over to Mme Giry."

"Fine by me," Christine choked out through her tears. She glared at him suddenly. "But if you spy on me through that mirror again, I'll superglue that bag to your head."

_Ooh! I've got a joke! Why did the author put random centered text in the middle of a chapter?_

_Answer: TO GET TO THE NEXT SCENE! ...I didn't say it was funny._

Meg Giry was furious. Raoul de Chagny had managed to flout every single one of her very clear instructions. He didn't stay with Christine; he didn't protect her from musically talented stalkers. He hadn't even succeeded in keeping her from singing: Meg had distinctly heard a soprano voice hitting a high E in a part that...was glossed over. (Don't you love passive voice? Keeps one from apportioning blame.)

And even worse, when Meg herself was forced to sing some pop song when she and the rest of the chorus had been mysteriously transported to some dark and dank place under the opera house, she'd caught her mother--_her own mother!_--in a _fish tank _with a man who most certainly was not Meg's father. Unless someone's done some slash that we didn't know about. (Either way, the person Mme Giry claimed was Meg's father had died years ago.)

The dancer, disgusted, kicked the unconscious body of the Vicomte out of the doorway and entered Christine's dressing room herself. The first thing she noticed, of course, was that the mirror was slightly open. She was about to shut it to keep out annoying breezes when she realized--dude. Mirror. Not window. Mirror. In other words...wtf?

Of course, she had to investigate. Someone had to do all the work, what with incompetent Vicomtes not being able to follow orders and with Christine's surrogate mother off singing in fish tanks with strange men. And of course, the someone was she.

Meg slid the mirror open further and ventured inside. It was not a pretty sight; obviously, the creep who'd been spying on Christine didn't bother decorating or cleaning up...or keeping the place warm and dry, either. He didn't even destroy the pests in there, as Meg discovered quickly, almost stepping on a rat. Both ballerina and rodent squealed and ran: the rat towards the light, and Meg towards the lake.

She slowed and stopped before she hit the water. Across the lake, she could see Erik's lair--_but there was no one there._ Sighing, she was about to turn back when...

DUN DUN DUN! (Scary music.) A head of fire zoomed towards her. It had no body, just the fire. Meg shrieked and ran for it; the head pursued her. She wasn't going to make it...it was catching up...when suddenly, the author suffered a fatal heart att--

Okay, so that was complete BS. The head of fire was from Gaston Leroux, but that guy was crazy. No, what _really _happened was that Meg ignored the rat after the initial shock. She walked a bit further when suddenly, her mother grabbed her by the shoulder and led her the heck out of there. "Come on," Mme Giry grumbled. "I've already got my sort-of daughter down there. I don't need my _real_ daughter there too."

_Roses are red, grass is green, I'm shutting up now, so here's the next scene._

Joseph Buquet, the stagehand whose small part in the first scene (besides the prologue) was entirely cut out, found a bunch of random chorus and ballet girls while in search for a larger part. He had sat them all down in various chairs, other than one whom he'd pretty much just draped over his arm, and he was now showing them placards.

"How to recognize different types of ghosts from quite a long way away," he announced to the girls. He held up a picture of a face, and the girls screamed. He had ugly yellow skin and no nose. "The 'Phantom'," he explained. He showed them another placard: this one was a man wearing a mask and holding what looked like a noose. "The 'Phantom'," he said again. In the next one, the masked man was strangling some guy with long hair with the noose; the long-haired guy had a thought bubble saying "Damn! I should have kept my hand at the level of my eyes!"

"The 'Phantom'," Buquet said.

Mme Giry noticed this and was annoyed by the mayhem it caused. She did some quick sketching of her own on a piece of paper and thrust it in front of Buquet. It crudely showed the masked man zapping an ugly stick figure labeled "Buquet", who was running around on fire, with his eyes.

"The 'Phantom'," Mme Giry hinted quite strongly to a stagehand who, fortunately, took the hint.


	8. Notes and Erik OG Gambolputty

_Sorry it took so long. I promised myself I'd get this chapter done before I go on spring break, since I won't have the computer with this stuff on it._

_Second half of this chapter dedicated to Robika. I have fulfilled your request at long last!_

_**Disclaimer**: Dear reader, vis-a-vis my writing, I do not own a bit of this...This is Gaston Leroux's; ALW's! On that note, please do not inform them, it would bore them if they knew that it exists! Erm...let's just pretend that all rhymed properly._

_**A note about Christine's age**: Before I get annoyed reviews saying "Christine is sixteen! Didn't you check the tombstone in the movie?", I would like to say, in my defense, that twenty is my estimate for Christine's age. It is hard to have a mature enough voice by sixteen to star in an opera (although I did, but that's because I hit female-vocal-puberty in fifth grade); plus, if you read the book, Meg is fifteen, yet she's a young ballet rat, whereas Christine is grown up. And they're not friends. I don't remember if it ever stated her age or not, but twenty is my estimate. That is all._

**Letters and vox pops, whatever the hell those are**

_Dear Andre and Firmin,_

_I feel I really must write and protest about your overworking my girlfriend, who didn't come home with me last night, so she must be with you. Christine, in common with a lot of people her age, is twenty. For how long are we to put up with these things?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_R. d. Chagny_

_a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a _

_Dear Andre and Firmin,_

_As a prolific note-writer, I feel I must protest the previous note. I am about fifty and am quite mad, but I do enjoy watching Christine work hard. On that note, Carlotta sucks, and she should play the pageboy and let Christine play the Countess. In fact, I feel so strongly about this that I am quite inclined to make a disaster beyond your imagination occur if you don't listen to me. Oh, and the dancing was awful--Mme Giry is awesome and all, but she needs to keep those girls on their toes. No pun intended._

_And by the way, Christine is **my** girlfriend, not that stupid fop's._

_Yours,_

_O.G._

_a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a__  
_

_Dear Andre and Firmin,_

_I would like to be paid five francs to say something stupid about the Phantom._

_Yours sincerely,_

_M. Joseph Buquet_

_a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a__  
_

_Dear Old Codgers, _(I swear that was in the actual episode! It worked so well!)

_I am prima donna of the Opera Populaire._

_Yours truly,_

_C. Giudicelli._

"Phew!" Andre whistled upon reading this letter. "Bet that's a job and a half, ma'am." He set to writing a note of his own.

_a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a_

_Dear All Y'all,_

_STOP SENDING US THESE STUPID NOTES! Christine's the pageboy, Carlotta's the Countess, there is no Opera Ghost, we're not giving a single franc to the stupid non-existent Phantom, end of story._

_--Andre and Firmin_

_a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a.a__  
_

Several people were surveyed about their views on the opera house. First up, Meg Giry. "Well, I think they should attack things like that--with satire." She reconsidered. "I mean, with Carlotta's voice. Fair's fair. I think people should be able to make up their own minds for me."

"Well I think they should attack the fuddy-duddy attitudes of the lower middle classes which permit the establishment to survive and keep the mores of the whole country back where they were in the nineteenth century and the ghastly days of the pre-sexual revolution." Mme Giry would most likely have continued, except that a boxer came up to her and punched her, rendering her unconscious.

Next: Piangi. "Well that's, er, very interesting, because, er, I am, in fact, made entirely of wood." Nothing of interest there, and nothing we didn't already know.

Carlotta, of course, would have thrown a fit if her opinion wasn't heard. "Well, I think-a they should attack Chrrreestine, er, first-a with bombs, and rockets destroying her home, and then when she rrruns helpless eento the streets, er, mowing her down with-a machine guns. Er, and then of course rrreleasing the vultures." She paused to flip her hair over her shoulder. "I know these views aren't popular, but I am! So everyone-a will want to change-a their views to match mine-a."

When Raoul was asked about his views, other than what he'd already expressed, he answered vacuously, "I think there should be more Punjabbing." Meg nudged him, whispering, "LESS!"

"Less Punjabbing," Raoul amended.

_**Back to the lecture hall...**_

Karina raised her hand. "Er...Professor...Gambolputty?" she addressed Erik, having obvious difficulty trying to figure out what to call him.

"Oui, mademoiselle?"

"May I just sidetrack for one moment. This...shall I call it nickname?...of yours...O.G. How did you come by it?"

Erik nodded to the question. "Well, it's short for Opera Ghost. I didn't use that nickname myself, but a lot of people, particularly the ballerinas, called me 'Opera Ghost'."

"I see." Karina digested this information. "And are you in fact a ghost?"

"No. I'm perfectly live--I just fell through a wormhole. I was live the whole time, but one year, I said to Mme Giry that I was thinking of impersonating a ghost, and since then some people have called me 'Opera Ghost'."

"In spite of the fact that you're still alive."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Yes."

"And are you still intending to become a ghost? To bring you in line with your epithet?"

Erik looked completely aghast at this--was she contemplating his death or something? "No!" he positively shouted.

Karina finally seemed to realize that this was a touchy subject. "I see. Well, to return to your life story..."

"Ah, yes." Erik smiled, looking relieved at the change of topic.

"Have you spent any of your life as a ghost?"

"No!" Erik exclaimed, even more shocked at the annoyance. "Look, this ghost business--it really doesn't matter. A few ballet rats call me Opera Ghost, and that's all there is to it. I wish you'd ask me about my life. Everyone talks about how I'm a 'ghost'. They've got it out of proportion--I'm a composer. Er, and an architect, magician, inventor, ventriloquist..."

Karina gave him a stern look. "Professor Gambolputty, I think, with respect, we ought to return to the subject of your life. How am I supposed to pass my final if you don't teach us?"

Erik, completely flummoxed by this point, took her up on that. "Very well, then. Well, they put on Il Muto, but without my specific casting instructions..."


	9. Nobody Expects Chapter Nine

_Agh! Sorry for the RIDICULOUSLY long wait! I don't have a good excuse--I just couldn't think of what to use in this scene._

_Il Muto through rooftop rendezvous is split into three chapters. This is the first; the other two will come hopefully soon. I've written the third already. Sorry to say that the Spanish Inquisition parody will carry on into the next chapter, but it did the same in episode 15._

_So here it is, dedicated to Whack-man Poop. Since you expected the Spanish Inquisition._

Why the managers had decided to put Carlotta in the lead role when there was a star hand-crafted by the Angel of Music just waiting to step into the role, a star who did not induce vomit and fetal positions...we will never know. But cast Carlotta they did, and the audience just had to suffer the consequences. And this audience included Erik.

Our favorite Phantom stepped into Box Five and tripped over Raoul. "Hey!" he shouted, interrupting Carlotta's massacre of "Poor Fool, He Makes Me Laugh". "This is supposed to be my box!"

Christine gasped. "OH MY GOD! IT'S MY STALKERISH TUTOR!"

Carlotta spent the next several minutes screaming at Christine about how all she had to do for her measly part was shut up, and she couldn't even manage that?

"Geez," Christine muttered under her breath. "I wasn't expecting a kind of Phantom wrath."

Erik burst onto the stage at this moment. "Nobody expects the wrath of the Phantom! My chief weapon is my anger...anger and Punjab lasso...Punjab lasso and anger..." He stopped for a moment, confused. "My two weapons are anger and Punjab lasso...and ventriloquism. My three--no. Among my weapons are anger, Punjab lasso--oh, dear. I'll come in again." He left the stage, embarrassed.

A brief conference later, the managers and Carlotta decided to start that number from the top. "Seraphimo, away with this pretense! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my--UUGGH!" She emitted a loud croak, which sounded far better than the note that was supposed to come out. Come to think of it, the audience realized, it was a very musical croak, in a beautiful baritone voice...

Carlotta regained her composure and continued. "Poor fool, he makes me laugh, hahahahaha! Ha--UUGGH! UUGGH!" She continued to croak, even when her mouth wasn't moving. Amazing how that happened.

Erik ran onstage triumphantly. "Nobody expects the wrath of the Phantom! Among my weaponry are such diverse elements as anger, Punjab lasso, and ventriloquism, as you have seen. And my torture chamber--" He buried his masked face in his hands, shaking his head at his own incompetence. "Oh, I can't say it." Inspiration struck, and he pulled Mme Giry out of the audience. "You'll have to say it!"

The ballet instructor was caught completely off-guard. "What?"

"You'll have to say the part about how my diverse weapons include anger, Punjab lasso...the heat of my eyes...how prudent silence is wise..."

Mme Giry backed away, eyes widened in stage fright. "Oh, no, I couldn't do that!"

Erik bustled her out a door into the foyer, berating her. "What do you mean, you couldn't do that?" he hissed. "You've been warning the managers about me, you told Buquet to shut up about me, and all by telling them about my diverse weapons! So what do you mean, you couldn't do that?"

Mme Giry's stage fright did not subside, but she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Erik. I'll try."

The opera's most beloved (mainly since there was only one) resident ghost grinned, relishing his triumph. "Thank you." He pushed a trembling Mme Giry back into the theatre. All eyes fell on the two of them.

Which, of course, poor stage frightened Mme Giry noticed. "N-no one--" she stuttered.

"Expects..." Erik prompted her.

"Expects," Mme Giry repeated. "Nobody expects the, um, the wrath of..."

Erik gritted his teeth. How many years had they known each other? Yet she still couldn't remember all his titles! "_The Phantom,_" he hissed.

The poor woman flushed. "I know, I know! Nobody expects the wrath of the Phantom! In fact, those who do expect it--"

_Oy._ "Our chief weapons..."

"Our chief weapons are...um..."

Erik gave up. "Okay, stop right there. Our chief weapons are blah blah blah. You can figure it out on your own." He beckoned to the Persian. "Daroga, read the charges."

Nadir was surprised that he was actually allowed a role, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever that means. Erik handed him a scroll, which the Persian unrolled and read to the prima donna. "You are hereby charged that you did on diverse dates subject innocent people to the horror that is your voice. My old man said follow the--"

Grabbing the scroll away, Erik cut the daroga off and addressed Carlotta. "Now, how do you plead?"

Infuriated at the insult to her voice, Carlotta snapped her reply. "I'm innocent!"

The Phantom laughed diabolically. Like this: "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Grinning maniacally--which almost knocked his mask off, because jeez, have you ever tried keeping one of those things on your face while changing your facial expression a lot? It doesn't work!--he added, "We'll soon change your mind about that! Daroga, the noose!"

Nadir pulled a newspaper out from inside his coat pocket. Erik gritted his teeth. _I said "noose", not "news"!_ he thought disbelievingly. But the poor daroga had served him well, both in Persia and in France. He couldn't thank him for all his hard work by yelling at him! Regaining his composure, he nodded. "Wrap it around her neck!"

Mme Giry grabbed one end of the newspaper and Nadir the other. Together, they tried to wrap it around the neck of the now quite annoyed diva, but to no avail. Erik swallowed. "Right! How do you plead?"

"Still innocent," Carlotta answered snidely.

"Ha! Right!" Erik shouted. "Daroga, give the...the noose..." he faltered. "Give the noose a tug."

Nadir looked at the floor quite awkwardly. "I...uh..."

The ever-patient Erik sighed. "I know you can't. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to ignore your crass mistake. Just pretend." He stood laughing diabolically over Carlotta's oddly _not_ garroted body for a few minutes before tiring of it. "Carry on with the opera," he ordered Andre and Firmin. "I'll see about improving the methods of..." He twirled his cape. "The wrath of the Phantom!"

The principal thought in everyone's minds at that moment was "Er, okay."


End file.
